


Zen and the Art of Aesthetic Farming

by ABadPlanWellExecuted



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABadPlanWellExecuted/pseuds/ABadPlanWellExecuted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The question is, why <i>not</i> organic cattle ranching?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as crack and became something else. But it’s still cracky. Crackish. Crackesque.

“So,” says the Doctor with relish, lacing his fingers with hers, “what do you think?”

“Uh…” says Rose. 

They’re standing in the muddy lane in front of an old stone farmhouse.  An actual farmhouse, on an actual farm.  An actual farm that the Doctor has actually bought without actually mentioning it to her first.

Upon their arrival in Pete’s World, Torchwood provided the Doctor with all the paperwork and arrangements necessary to create a plausible identity, including a sizable stipend.  Defending the Earth, as it turned out, paid pretty well in this universe. 

When Rose asked him what he wanted to do with it, the Doctor started talking at a million miles an hour about his plans for the TARDIS coral and how they would need growth platforms and nutrobase substrates, etc., etc., in an ever expanding list. 

It had been only been two weeks since Bad Wolf Bay.  Thirteen and a half days of slogging through Torchwood paperwork and bureaucracy, dodging the press, and verifying that the stars were indeed back in their proper places.  And it had been nearly as long since the Doctor had moved into the spare bedroom in her flat. 

It was all extremely platonic and was only just saved from being completely awkward by the fact that they hardly had time to catch their breath, let alone start any sort of proper relationship.  So as the Doctor rambled on about his TARDIS plans, Rose laid her head back on the couch, only half-listening.  The thought of just climbing up onto his lap and snogging him, breaking the ice good and proper, was an interesting one, and definitely more entertaining than the alkali anion exchange membrane that he was going on about.

But there was time for that yet—now that things had settled down, there was time for them to get reacquainted, time for the ghost of the other man to fade.  Besides, Rose still was enjoying the novelty of being on sabbatical, and as the Doctor talked, she drifted off to the wonderful sound of his voice describing time and space and adventure.

And then, less than seventy-two hours later, he went and bought a farm.  Because suddenly he’s decided that they are going to be cattle ranchers.  Organic cattle ranchers. 

Apparently.

“Uh,” says Rose again, taking in the cracked windows, the weathered roof.  “Well, it’s certainly very…”  Nice?  Old?  Surreal?  Yes, surreal is definitely the word she’s searching for.

“I know!” replies the Doctor with a disturbing amount of enthusiasm.  “It’s perfect!”

“And this seems like a good idea to you?”  She isn’t trying to sound sarcastic—it really is meant as a legitimate question.

“Oh, yes.  And you have to come see the barn,” the Doctor says cheerfully, tugging her hand until she follows, trainers squelching in the mud, down the little path leading around the house.  “It’s exactly what we need—plenty of room in there.” 

Room for what, she wants to ask, but as he unlatches the door and pushes it open with a shrill creak, the answer becomes apparent.  Plenty of room for cows.  Lots and lots of cows.

“The light’s just right,” the Doctor says with glee.  “And so is the temperature.  Nice and snug!”

“There’s already cows in here,” Rose observes, feeling stupid and off-footed.  She side-steps her way around some unnamable substances on the floor.  “Uh, whose cows are these?”

The Doctor spins around to face her.  “What do you mean?  They’re our cows, of course.  Bought them along with the farm.”

Rose’s eyebrows fly up.  “These are all our cows?  You bought them?  As in, we own them and…and are responsible for them?”

“Yeah.  Well…”  He rubs the back of his neck.  “This is one of the herds.  The others are out in the fields.”

“The others.”  Rose crosses her arms.  “How many cows do we own, exactly?”

“Er, not too many, really.  Wanted to keep it small and all.”  He gives her a disarming grin and places a hand on the head of a curious Jersey cow who has wandered away from the feeding trough to see what all the fuss is about.  “Rose, just look at their fuzzy little noses.”  He scratches the cow’s ears.

“Do you know how to take care of cows?”  Again, not meant to sound sarcastic. 

“Well…no, not exactly.  But there’s a farmhand, Henry, who took care of them before, and so I’ve hired him on.  Also, I’ve brought along some books that should explain the basics.”

At this moment, the little Jersey cow gives a surprisingly violent head toss, hitting the Doctor square in the ribs and knocking him back into a pile of hay.

“Well,” says Rose, as he scrambles back up, unhurt but chagrined, “as long as we’ve got books.”  (This time, the sarcasm is deliberate.)

They go to inspect the house, and upon entering, the Doctor begins an excited litany of its features.  (“Walls!  Doors!  Ooh, windows!”)    To be fair, he doesn’t have a lot to work with—the house is tiny, with one little sitting room, a kitchen with an actual wood burning stove, an eating nook, a root cellar, and a rickety staircase leading up to the two bedrooms upstairs.  For one nervous moment, Rose is afraid there’s no actual loo.  She lets out a sigh of relief when she finds it behind a little door with no knob, just an eye-and-hook latch on the inside. 

“Well, this is perfect!”  The Doctor’s voice comes from just over her left ear and with a level of cheer that seemed unrealistic even for him.  “And all furnished, too.  We can move right in.”

She glances at him over her shoulder.  “I do have furniture, you know.  We could always bring it up to, uh, fill in.”

“Nah,” says the Doctor, as though the very idea were absurd.  “Your stuff’s all modern; it’d never match the décor.  Besides,” he runs his hand over the back of his neck, “we’d best keep your flat for when we visit London.  To avoid…burdening…others.”

To avoid staying with Jackie and Pete, he means, and Rose bites back a smile.  The Doctor has been thrilled to live in a universe with Jackie Tyler once more, but somehow that enthusiasm doesn’t seems to extend to guest rooms, borrowed toothbrushes, and awkward questions about his intentions toward certain daughters.  Rose figures she should probably be more annoyed by it, but honestly, in the wake of everything that has happened, the old familiar “no domestics” refrain is almost reassuring.

“It will do, won’t it?  Rose?” he asks, after she has been quiet a moment.  “The house, I mean.  Is it alright?”

He looks so unsure all of a sudden, eyes on her and that hand still ruffling the hair on the back of his head.  Rose pastes on a smile. 

“Sure.  Yeah.  It’ll be fine,” she says with perhaps more assurance than necessary.  “It’ll be great.”

She’s had a lot of experience faking enthusiasm over the last few years, so it doesn’t come out too badly.  And it’s worth it, really, the way the smile spreads across his face.  “It’ll be a bit of a new adventure, that’s for sure.  Oh, and look!”  He turns and bounds back to the kitchen.  “Did you see?  Pots and pans!  All the pots and pans you could ever need.  And crockery!”         

The Doctor continues to make note of all of the features of the house (“Curtains, Rose!  And cupboards!”), but he doesn’t actually seem to be paying attention to her, so Rose slips upstairs to inspect the two tiny bedrooms. 

They are nearly identical, one on either side of the stairwell landing.  Each has a knobby old iron bed with a faded bedspread, a window, a chest of drawers, and a little wash basin table.  Really, the only difference between them is that one bedspread has yellow stripes and the other has roses, which Rose suspects will be hers by virtue of the floral allusion, at least in the absence of any other deciding factor. 

Which would make the other room his, of course.  Separate rooms, naturally.  Why else would he buy a two-bedroom house?   

Feeling only slightly put out, she steps into the rose-room.  Sitting on the edge of an ancient bed, Rose looks out the window through old, warped glass that makes the view of the surrounding hillsides run together.  She stretches an arm out to run her finger over the white windowsill, the cracked paint gritty and rough under her fingertips.  

Downstairs, the Doctor’s voice has reached a new octave, and he is beginning to sound a bit manic.  Maybe, Rose thinks with a sigh, this is something he needs to do, some sort of way to acclimatize to this new life.  Throwing himself into the deep end.  Doing domestic on a whole new scale—at least the sort that doesn’t involve her mother.

(“A canning cupboard!” he shouts from downstairs.  “Just think, Rose, we’ll be able to can things!”)

Well.  This new version of him is still the Doctor, and if it’s time he needs, then that’s exactly what she’ll give him.  As much time as he wants.

(“Oh, dear.  Oh-hh, dear.  Rose,” he calls up the stairs, “if you’re keeping a shopping list, make sure to add ‘mouse-traps’ to it.  We seem to have a bit of an infestation.”)

A year, she amends silently.  She’ll give him a year.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Proper maintenance of all structures is necessary for the longevity and efficiency of any serious agricultural endeavor_.” E. W. Hildy, _Successful Farm Management_ , p. 56

The list of repairs is a mile long.

The Doctor’s priorities are a bit, well…odd.  To put it mildly.

“Got to have the weathervane up,” he says as he balances halfway up the ladder, the large, metal silhouette of a chicken wedged firmly under one arm.  “Can’t have a farm without a weathervane.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea,” argues Rose, keeping one hand on the ladder.  “It’s just...shouldn’t we see to the roof first?”  It looks a bit saggy in places, and she’s pretty sure one good storm would make quick work of a few spots.  In fact, she’s not sure climbing on it at all is such a good idea.

But the Doctor just shakes his head.  “Nah.”  He scrambles up onto the wooden shingles, warped with age.  “It’ll hold for a bit.  Oh, hey, toss me up that spanner, would you?”

“You are going to break your neck,” she predicts, even as she throws the spanner to him.  He catches it one handed and grins like the cocky bastard that he is. 

“Stop worrying.  You don’t think this is my first weathervane installation, do you?”  He sniffs.  “Once upon a time, I popped one of these beauties onto the very tiptop of the Rochester Cathedral.”     

Rose thinks it would be unwise to mention that back then he probably had the help of the TARDIS and the sonic screwdriver.  Back then he wasn’t wearing a faded t-shirt borrowed from Pete and a pair of jeans that Jackie bought him, although why the clothes should make a difference, she has no idea.  He’s still the Doctor, no matter what he wears, and anyway, he can hardly do farm work in a suit, at least not without it getting torn to shreds.  It just looks…different, is all.

Not bad, though, she muses as he sets the weathervane down and leans over to prep the installation site.  He crouches on the slope of the roof in a runner’s pose, all long and lean denim-clad legs and bum.  No, not bad at all. 

Still, it’s hard to shake that little niggling doubt.  He can do it, she tells herself, trying not to wring her hands.  He’s the Doctor.  She believes him.  She believes _in_ him, even as she catches her breath when he swings a leg out over open space in order to get a proper grip on the spanner.

There is only one wobble, but it’s enough to make her heart leap into her throat, to make her muscles fire automatically, ready to catch the man who can’t trade in this face for another.  But a few moments later, the weathervane is in place, and all’s well.  He clambers back down to her, grinning, and she pulls him into a hug, hard and fast.  Their knees bump together, and the spanner pokes her in the ribs, but for just a moment, it feels like _them_ , no room for anything—or any _one_ —else in between _._

He chuckles, delighted.  “Were you really so worried?”  His voice is pleasantly low in her ear.  “Told you it wouldn’t be a problem.”  He changes his grip on the spanner so that it lies flat against her side and, after a moment’s hesitation, lowers his head to press his cheek against her hair.

It feels good, so very good and familiar, and Rose realizes suddenly that she’s close to just giving in and sniffing his neck.  It’s their first proper hug since that day on the beach, and oh, she’s missed it.  Everything’s been so rushed and awkward and confusing, but _this_ , this feels right. 

The smell is a little different, though.  No wool and more skin, so everything’s a bit…sweatier.  And the fabric of his t-shirt is so thin that the smell of him is more obvious, although the scent itself hasn’t changed much, and…

With a jolt, Rose realizes that she’s comparing, analyzing.  Where is he different and where is he the same.  It really isn’t all that surprising—it’s not like Human-Time Lord Metacrises happen every day, so how’s she supposed to know what to expect?—but she feels guilty nonetheless.  She has already accepted that he’s the Doctor, so it’s not fair to start double-checking now.  No comparisons are needed.

Also, she is, in fact, sniffing his neck.  And when did his fingers start gently stroking her back?

Wow, this hug has gone on for a really long time.

He makes a happy, humming sort of sound against the top of her head, apparently content to stay this way, completely wrapped around each other.  He’s certainly not letting go.

…

He’s not exactly moving forward, either.

Rose’s heart thuds in her chest as she tilts her head just a little bit, just a fraction.  Not enough to be pushy or anything, but if her partner were so inclined, it wouldn’t take much to turn this hug into a snog.

If he were so inclined.

The Doctor’s grip shifts a little bit, his hands fisting in her shirt, but he doesn’t move his head at all, really, except to nuzzle her forehead a little with his chin.  

Ok, that didn’t work.  Maybe if she just—

Just then, a solid gust of wind rushes past them, and at least fifteen shingles come sliding down to the ground, startling Rose into letting go and breaking the moment. 

“Oi, what did I say?” she says, staring down at the shingles by way of hiding any flush that might be lingering on her face.  “Look at that, shingles down all over.”  She toes one of them with her trainer.

The Doctor shrugs, unconcerned.  “Eh, it’ll be alright.  This roof’s held up for decades.  I’m sure it’ll last a few more weeks, at least until we have some time to spare.”  He smiles at her, picks up his tools, and heads to the barn, unconcerned. 

Of course, that night it rains, and the extent of the damage becomes evident.  They are forced to haul all the crockery upstairs to catch the drips, and the plink-plink-plink of the water leaking in keeps them both awake all night. 

The next day, they get to work on the roof. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_“Be sure to take into account the welfare of the neighboring farms when planning for the maintenance of your fences and hedgerows, the management of your stock, and all other general practices of your farm.  Building good neighbor relations is an essential part of the successful farmer’s job.”_   J. Rutger, _The Stocksman’s Guide to Agricultural Management_ , p. 43

The first day they have any free time at all, Rose drags the Doctor away from the farm, insisting that it’s time they explore the local area.  It takes some effort—she actually has to talk him out of painting the cottage shutters, a conversation she never envisioned having with the Doctor—but finally, she gets her way.  They get cleaned up and go walking down the lane to the village.[[MORE]]

(They don’t hold hands.  At first, Rose flirts with the idea of offering, but the longer they go without it, the more awkward making the suggestion seems.  She ends up spending the walk biting her fingernails and fretting.  The Doctor looks utterly unconcerned and walks with his hands tucked inside his pockets.)

The Doctor’s blue suit and trainers raise all sorts of eyebrows down at the local pub.  The red-faced, weathered farmers in their wellies and rough trousers make him stand out in sharp relief, and when someone asks him what line of work he’s in and he announces that he’s a farmer, a chuckle goes around the group at the bar.

A round for the room goes a long way toward making friends, and by the time they leave, they’re shaking hands with everyone, promising to come back soon.  Still, the Doctor seems unusually quiet as they walk back home.

“Do you think it’s the blue?” he asks Rose worriedly, running a hand over the breast pocket of his suit.  “It’s a bit bright.  Maybe I should have worn the brown one Jackie picked out.”

It’s the first time she’s ever heard the Doctor wonder if his clothes might not fit in.  She’d been considering having another go at the handholding, but the unfamiliarity of the sentiment makes her shift just a little bit farther away from him again.

“I think maybe they just don’t wear a lot of suits,” she answers by way of consolation.  “Everybody was in work clothes and wellies, right?”

He doesn’t answer, but his face is pensive. 

“You could always wear the jeans some more,” she suggests, trying not to sound hopeful.  (He looks just magnificent in those jeans.)

“I s’pose.”  But he’s quiet for the rest of the walk home.

Two days later, he comes home with bags and bags of clothes from the local thrift shop.  He dumps out his purchases in a pile on the sofa in their little sitting room, and Rose raises an eyebrow as she starts to sort through them all because most of it looks like it’s from the 1950s.  She holds up a pair of faded trousers and braces questioningly.

“It’s just the thing!” the Doctor assures her.  “Ooh and look!”  He fishes around in one of the bags and pulls out a tweed cap, which he dons with a flourish.  “What do you think?”

“Uh,” says Rose, because she’s fairly sure this is the first time she’s ever seen him voluntarily smoosh his own hair down. 

Well, there was that one time with the space suit helmet...

“And I didn’t just get things for me,” he announces, interrupting her thoughts as he dives back into the pile.  “Look!” 

This time, he pulls up a faded yellow sack dress with big, sagging pockets. 

Rose’s eyes narrow.  “And who’s that for?”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad,” he says before glancing at the dress again.  “Er, well.”  He tosses it back down.  “Maybe that’s not the best example.” 

He starts rooting through the pile again, pulling out other (admittedly less objectionable) articles of clothing for her.  Rose, meanwhile, is still trying to wrap her head around the idea that he went clothes shopping on his own, and what’s more, went clothes shopping for _her._   

Of all the weird things that she’s seen aliens do over the years, this has to be in the top five.  At least.

At last, he announces that he’s off to get changed and trots upstairs with a bundle of clothes.  Rose stays in the living room and sorts her new items into piles of yeah-ok-maybe and oh-hell-no.  She supposes there is a certain sense to all this—all the clothing is very…sturdy, much better suited for farm work than the rest of her wardrobe. 

On the other hand…  She holds up a lumpy blue housecoat with ruffles down the front.  If he expects her to wear that, he can just think again.

When he comes back down, he’s dressed in the wool trousers with braces over a white shirt, sleeves rolled messily up to his elbows, and the tweed cap on his head.  Rose has to take a moment, because wow, if she thought the jeans and t-shirt was surreal, this is just…just…

“Well?”  He looks at her expectantly, turning slightly to the side.  “How do I look?”

Like a character from the cover art to ‘The Heiress and the Stable Hand.’

Also, kind of like a newsboy.

A sexy, sexy newsboy.

Rose swallows.  “You look just like a proper British farmer.”

His face lights up with a thousand-watt grin, delighted, and then he goes rifling through her piles, pulling out some clothes and tossing them to her.  “Right then, I’ve got just the thing for us to do today, part of the authentic farm experience.  Go put these on, and then come meet me out in the orchard, alright?”

Without waiting for her agreement, he rushes out the door, grabbing a jumper for himself off his pile as he goes. 

She eyes the clothing he’s selected for her.  Well, in for a penny…

Fifteen minutes later, Rose is standing next to an apple tree, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the shower of bark and leaves that the tree’s occupant is kicking loose. 

“So what do you think, Rose Tyler?”  This question is punctuated by the tossing of an apple, which Rose catches nimbly in her (apparently mandatory) apron.  “This is fun, eh?”

“Hmm.  I feel very wholesome, Doctor.”  Another apple, then two, then three comes down before she asks the question that is troubling her.  “But do we really have to be wearing matching Fair Isle jumpers?”

There is a scrabbling sound from up above, and another rain of debris comes down on her.  Rose shakes her hair to rid it of the leaves and twigs and, with one strong puff of air, dislodges a spider from her shoulder.  When she looks up again, two bright eyes are peeping down at her from between the leaves. 

“Oh, yes,” he answers emphatically, stretching out a jumper-covered arm to snag another apple off the tree.

“Ri-ight,” mutters Rose.

(They make pie with the apples.  The Doctor is adamant that it cool on the windowsill, and, with the fervor of a true country life devotee, spends an inordinate amount of time turning it this way and that to find the most aesthetically pleasing position.  Rose starts to seriously consider the possibility that he’s gone insane.  The pie, however, proves to be delicious.)

 


	4. Chapter 4

“ _The successful cattle farmer is engaged with every aspect of his herd’s management and knows that only quality care can yield superior results.”_ J. Sutter,  _Sutter’s Manual on the Care and Feeding of Cattle,_ p. 198

There are a number of things about cow care and farm life in general that the books don’t ever mention.  Like what it feels like to get your toes stepped on by a cow, and how you are supposed to wear boots, not trainers, in the barn.  Or how if you don’t want cows munching on the nutrobase substrate for your interdimensional, transtemporal TARDIS coral that you’ve installed in its own little stall in the barn, well, you’d better remember to latch the stall door.

It’s an insane amount of work, running a farm—something always needs to be fixed or hauled or mucked.  Even with Henry’s help, Rose and the Doctor get up with the dawn every day and go to bed exhausted.  (Still in separate bedrooms, of course.   And honestly, the first few weeks, Rose is too tired to care.)

The Doctor is oddly fussy about some things, too—strangely preoccupied with making sure that everything is arranged according to some vision of proper farm life in his own head.  Which would be fine, really—this is his adventure, after all—but his predilections always seem to increase the amount of effort that everything requires.

There is no electricity in the barn, but rather than wiring it up, as Rose knows he’s perfectly capable of doing, he insists they use this old oil lantern every evening when they go out to the barn to do their last check on the cows.  As she’s getting ready for bed every evening, Rose can smell the pungent, sour odor of kerosene on her fingers. 

And when Robert from the pub says he’s selling his practically-new, ultramodern tractor, the Doctor just shakes his head and keeps puttering around with the ancient David Brown Cropmaster, circa 1953.  It only runs about half the time and has a tendency to cough up great clouds of black smoke, but it is a lovely, shiny red, thanks to the Doctor’s careful cleaning. 

They have quite a row over installing an Internet connection, but Rose wins that one by virtue of the fact that, sabbatical or not, she’s still keeping tabs on things at Torchwood, so it’s either Internet or her driving to London twice a week.  The Doctor grudgingly sets up the connection but bizarrely insists on drawing the curtains closed every evening while she checks her email. 

When she questions him about these things, he rambles on about the importance of the aesthetic of it all—it wouldn’t be very authentic to live on a farm but be surrounded by modern conveniences, now, would it?  Rose is a little dubious about his reasoning—frankly, a 900-year-old alien-human hybrid and an ex-shop girl from another universe running a farm in northern Yorkshire is hardly the standard model of British agriculture.  (Plus, she’s pretty sure the neighbors in the farmhouse down the lane have a big screen TV.)  When she makes that comment, though, it just seems to spur the Doctor on to greater efforts.

He throws himself into this life with a wild abandon, working on project after project—repainting the barn, clearing the brush out of the orchard, even installing window boxes on the house and planting them full of flowers.  It’s…a little odd.  She’s only ever seen him this driven when there was an invasion to stop or a civilization to save, but it doesn’t seem very likely that any life or death situation hinges on whether the front hedges are trimmed.  Honestly, she’s a little hesitant to ask about his motivations—all the possibilities seem fraught with uncomfortable issues, like it’s all part of some Time Lord midlife metacrisis crisis or something. 

The Doctor’s latest project is building a chicken coop.  The old one is full of holes and rodents (it’s basically a rat metropolis) so there’s nothing to be done but construct a new one.  And for some reason, he refuses to use power tools, cutting the wood with a hand saw with beads of sweat on his forehead and his hair drooping in the sun. 

Rose brings him water, provides an extra set of hands when he needs them, and listens to his long, rambling lectures on chicken husbandry, but after awhile, she starts to get restless.  She’s not really sure where she fits into this whole farming scheme of his—Henry, fortunately, knows all about taking care of cows, and the Doctor is clearly working on some grand vision of his own design—but she doesn’t really have a part to play.  When she tentatively mentions this one afternoon while holding up one of the frame pieces for the coop, the Doctor is quick to come up with a solution.

“Plant a garden,” he says, pausing for a moment on the ladder to wipe his forearm across his brow.  “We could use a nice kitchen garden.  Peas and carrots and all that.”

Rose frowns.  “It’s the end of summer.  Will anything grow through the fall?  Besides, I don’t really know how.  I’ve only ever had house plants, and they mostly died.” 

“Well, then you’re in luck,” says the Doctor, fishing around in his pockets for another nail.  He waggles his eyebrows.  “I brought a book.”

Rose rolls her eyes and braces her shoulder against the frame as the Doctor starts to hammer it into place.  But that afternoon, she finds his book and sits down to read about soil quality and proper irrigation and overwintering and pH, and by the next day, she’s planning her garden.

It’s a huge amount of work, even when she finally gives up on the hoe and shovel and asks the Doctor to bring the tractor around to till the nice sunny spot that she’s picked out near the back door of the house.  She spends the better half of a morning picking rocks out of the dirt and the rest of it hauling freshly composted earth from the bottom of the manure pile to improve the soil quality.  Then there’s raised beds and trellises to build and a fence that needs installing to keep out the wildlife. 

There is something to be said for seeing the seeds sprout, though, each one a tiny miracle stretching toward the sun.  When the first ones come up, Rose spends the afternoon sitting on the edge of the planting boxes, fascinated.  She’s so entranced that she can hardly bring herself to do the culling that the books insist is necessary for a healthy garden.  She is ruthless with the weeds, though, and before long, her little garden is looking like a proper bit of agriculture.

And then, calamity.

“The snails are eating my lettuce,” she announces one afternoon, walking into the newly finished chicken coop.  “I want vengeance.  We’ve got to have a little snail bait around here somewhere, right?”

The Doctor is kneeling on the ground, holding something gently between his two hands.  Beside him, there is a pair of cardboard boxes.

“No snail bait,” he admonishes, eyes on his hands.  “That wouldn’t be very organic, now would it?”

“Oh, just on the kitchen garden,” she wheedles.  “C’mon, they’re eating everything!”  Then she stops suddenly as the head of a little yellow chick pops up between his fingers.

The Doctor glances up at her and smiles.  “Come see.  Henry brought them over for us—they’ve only just arrived.”

She kneels down next to him and strokes a finger over the fluffy little head.  “It’s so soft,” she marvels and then squeals as the Doctor quickly shifts the little chick into her hands. 

“Don’t worry, they’re tougher than they look,” he says, chuckling as he takes another one out of the box.  “They’re not even that new.  A few more weeks in the brooding box, and they’ll be able to move in here permanently.  Isn’t that right?” he coos to the little chick in his hands.

Rose takes a moment to look around at the finished coop as the chick flaps impatiently at her fingers.  The Doctor’s done an amazing job—there are cozy little nesting boxes and ramps leading up to roosting bars and water and feed troughs.  There’s even a clever pulley system to open the little flap door to let the chickens out into the fenced yard.  It’s less a chicken coop than a chicken…Hilton. 

“Nice,” she comments, stroking a finger over the fluffy yellow back of the chick.  “Lucky chickens.”

“Useful chickens,” he says, placing his chick back in the box.  “Guess who’s going to clear up your little snail problem.”

“Really?”  Rose eyes the chick in her hands.  “They’ll eat snails?”

“Well, not yet.  But their mum’s in the other box, and Henry’s going to bring over a few more laying hens this afternoon.  They’ll be more than happy to snack on all the snails and bugs in your garden.  Plus, they’ll…well, add fertilizer at the same time.”

“Huh.”  She thinks it over.  “So the bugs in the garden feed the chickens, and the chickens feed the garden.”

“And the garden feeds us with the leftovers going to the chickens.  The chickens lay eggs, again for us, and the shells can go in the compost heap for the garden.”

“Good system.”

“It’s like recycling,” he says, grinning like a loon, and she laughs even as she rolls her eyes at his terrible taste.

He’s been doing that more and more lately, referencing some bit of their past, usually in the form of a joke.  Rose wonders if it’s intentional, if he’s trying to reassure her that he really is himself.  She never knows quite how to respond, how to say, ‘yes, I know you’re _you._ ’

(She’s mostly almost entirely sure of it.)

She leans over to set her chick gently back in the box. “I never did get that bit about Gwen and Gwyneth and the genetic multi-whatever.”

The Doctor gives a half-laugh.  “Oh, that was gibberish.  He was just making it up.  Didn’t want to say ‘magic clone.’”

It’s the first time _he’s_ been mentioned, at least in casual, non-Torchwood conversation.  Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, Rose fishes for something to say to keep it from being awkward.  “How’d you know?”

The Doctor tilts his head back against the wall of the coop, staring up at the ceiling.  “Same man, same brain.”

“Ah.”

“Yep.” 

His reply is clipped, and he looks just a little…sad, maybe.  They’ve had so little time to spend together, really, with all the work to be done, that she’s not really sure what might be troubling him.  Still, this is a mood she recognizes.  This is a role she knows how to play. 

“So, if he were here,” she begins, scooting over next to him and tilting her head back, mirroring his position, “he’d have built this exact same slice of poultry paradise?”

His lips twitch, fighting a smile, and she counts it as a victory.  “Nah,” he says, looking around at the results of all his labors.  “Not a bit.”  When she glances at him questioningly, he grins at her.  “His would be absolute rubbish.”

He’s being completely ridiculous, of course, but behind it, there’s a question in his eyes.  And his shoulders are tense, like maybe he’s holding his breath just a bit, waiting for her answer.

“Yeah,” she agrees, looking around.  “Absolute rubbish.”

“Yeah?”

She looks at him and smiles.  “Yeah.”

He smiles back.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

_“Keep in mind that life as a farmer can vary wildly.  Markets, weather, and livestock are inherently unpredictable, and any given day has the potential for both disaster and triumph.  Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and remember—these things happen.”_   C. Mills, _Cattle Farming and You_ , p. 91

_Cows._

Cows are such _unbelievable_ bastards.

Rose wipes the dirt and sweat off her face with the edge of her sleeve and, as she catches the sound of triumphant mooing in the distance, growls under her breath. 

A little over three hours ago, she and the Doctor were repairing the road-adjacent fence in the southern field, and he was entertaining her with stories about all the excellent advice he’d doled out during the building of Hadrian’s Wall, the Great Wall of China, and the Mighty Maroon Rampart of Cedruis Selindae. 

Everything had been going fine until they reached a section where the timbers were totally rotted through.  They were forced to take down every board and dig up the fence posts, leaving a gap in the enclosure.  It shouldn’t have been a problem—they had everything they needed to fix it—except that, right at that moment, one of the herds of cows appeared at the top of hill above the fence line. 

It was almost comical, the way she and the Doctor looked up at the same time, both of them instinctually sensing the weight of those bovine eyes. Together, they moved quickly to fill the gap, and for one tense moment, it seemed like a standoff.  Then the leader of the herd gave a great, head-tossing snort, and the cows began their descent.  There was only time for Rose and the Doctor to duck out of the way as the herd came down the hill at a stiff-legged gallop, ran straight through the hole in the fence, and took off down the road.

Since then, the cows have been having a fine time trampling up and down the countryside for the better part of the morning, much to the annoyance of the rest of the neighborhood.

Hot and footsore, Rose leans against the stone wall at the side of the road to catch her breath.  There are all sorts of burs and thistles snagged on the legs of her bizarrely high waisted 1950’s trousers, there’s a pebble trapped in her shoe, and she has no idea where the Doctor’s gone.

With a groan, she balances on one foot, wiggling the other as she tries to work the pebble out.  Continuing the chase is pointless anyway—the cows just trot off, kicking their heels as soon as they see her.  She and the Doctor have managed to fix the hole in the fence temporarily, but that’s neither here nor there because there’s no way they’re ever going to be able to catch the horrible creatures.  It’s impossible, can’t be done, they’re just going to have to buy all new cows, really that’s the only thing for it, because there’s absolutely no way that—

“Oi,” calls the Doctor’s voice.  “No sitting down on the job!” 

He comes rattling down the road on an old bicycle that he must have hauled out of the junk pile behind the barn.  It’s rusty, and the tires look threadbare, but somehow he’s managing to turn the gears with his long legs.  He looks _good_ doing it, too—he’s back in the jeans today with his white shirt unbuttoned a little at the neck and his sleeves pushed up.  His hair (which he’s recently taken to combing _down_ , of all things) has been artfully tousled by the wind.  He’s a bit sweaty, but in a pleasant, manly sort of way.

Rose glares at him.

“Come on, it’s time to rally,” he says, all enthusiasm and good cheer as he hops off the bike.  “We’ve got them right where we want them!  In the corner!  On the ropes!  Er, well, mostly.”  He reaches a hand back and ruffles the hair on the back of his neck.  “I mean, they’ve got to get tired eventually, right?”

“They’re never going to be tired,” she says in a remarkably even voice.  “Possessed psychotic robot devil cows _don’t ever get_ tired.  So unless you have a brilliant plan for catching them—and I mean _brilliant_ —I’m calling Torchwood and having the lot of them flown by helicopter to Cardiff and shoved into the Rift.”

“Rose,” says the Doctor in a shocked voice, eyes going wide.  “That’s a terrible thing to say.  You don’t even know where that Rift ends up.  Are you really willing to be responsible for unleashing those cows on some poor, unsuspecting dimension?”

“Ha ha.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad,” wheedles the Doctor.  “They’ll definitely want to come back for dinner time, and that’s what…only five more hours?  Besides, take a look at this.”  He turns and unstraps something from the back of the bicycle.  Holding the blinking, beeping device up, he beams.  “Cow catcher!  Designed by me, by the way, so totally brilliant, guaranteed.  We’ll have them back in no time.”     

He looks so pleased with himself, waving around that absurd bit of technology, that Rose reluctantly cracks a smile.  He grins in response.  “That’s more like it.  Now, here’s the plan—”

Rose holds up a hand to stop him.  “I need a minute,” she says, kicking her foot against the ground, trying again to get the pebble out.  “It’s hot—these trousers are _wool_ —and there’s something stuck in my shoe.”

He glances down at her legs.  “Looks like you ran through a patch of burs.”

“Really?” she says sweetly.  “Hadn’t noticed.”  Bending over to the side, she manages to fish the pebble out, at least, and then runs her hand down her right calf.  “Actually, the burs aren’t really the problem—I can’t hardly feel them.  But there’s something else stuck in there that’s poking me, but I can’t figure out where it is to pull it out.”

“Probably something trapped between the layers of fabric.  Here, let me see.”  Dropping to one knee, he reaches down and cups her heel, uses it to lift her foot up onto his other leg.  Gently, he slides his hand up her trousers, turning his hand around so that his fingers are facing outward, sliding over the fabric rather than her skin. 

He’s definitely not trying to cop a feel or anything, but the sensation of his knuckles brushing against her calf is enough to make her hold her breath, arch her back just a little.  She can’t help it—after a month of them being so carefully platonic, this feels surprisingly intimate.

His hand stops as he locates whatever it is, and he leans in closer to see.  “Ah.  There we are,” he says softly as he extracts a splinter from a stalk of wheat.  “All better.”

He twists his hand, drums his fingers against her leg once in a friendly sort of way, and Rose lets out her breath in a little whoosh.  She wants to give him space, doesn’t want to scare him off, but his touch, him kneeling in front of her—she can’t help the brief fantasy where this isn’t about splintery bits of wheat at all, where she straightens her leg and lets him see just how far up these loose-legged trousers he can reach. 

She’s pretty sure at least some of those thoughts are visible on her face because when he looks up, his mouth drops opens just a little.  His tongue makes an appearance at the edge of his lips, and she realizes with a jolt that it’s because he’s copying her, that she’s doing it, too.

“Thanks,” she manages, and then sets her foot back down and lifts the other.  With as innocent an expression as she can muster, she asks, “You want to check this one, too?”

She half-expects him to bluster the way her first Doctor would’ve, or to make a joke out of it like the next version.  What she doesn’t expect is the slow smile or the way he catches hold of her heel without ever looking away from her face.  His other hand slips under the fabric, palm facing in this time, and strokes delicately over her bare skin. 

He hardly goes more than halfway up her shin, doesn’t go anywhere near the ticklish bits near the back of her knee, but every nerve is firing, and she can feel his touch all the way up her spine.  She’d definitely stretch out her leg and let him have a go at reaching up farther if she didn’t think she’d fall down on her arse the moment he did. 

Really, she had no idea ankles could be this erotic.

“Hmm.”  He slips his hand up a little higher, cups the base of her calf muscle.  Gives it a light squeeze.  “Doesn’t seem like there’s anything at all wrong here.”  One more brush of his fingers along her tendons, and he’s pulling his hand out of her trousers. 

He stands up, dusts off his jeans like this is all totally normal, when all she can do is stand there and stare. 

“Still feeling hot?” he enquires politely.

She swallows.  “Huh?”

“You’re hot.  In your trousers, you said.”

He says it completely straight-faced, and she’s left boggling at him, momentarily unable to parse out the innocent interpretation of those words. 

Is he…is he doing that on purpose?

He purses his lips.  “You know, you do look a little flushed.  C’mon.” He waggles his eyebrows.  “I’m giving you a croggy.”

She blinks.  “A…a what-now?”

He grabs his bike and wheels it toward her.  “A ride,” he says, patting the handlebars.  “I pedal, you sit.”

Oh.  Right.

Letting out a puff of air to blow the strands of hair off her face, Rose tries to school her thoughts back to reality.  “Um.  You sure you’re going to be able to get that thing to move with both of us on it?”

He rolls his eyes.  “Yes.  Now, you hold the cow catcher.  Try to keep it flat, like this,” he says, demonstrating, “parallel to the ground, if you can.”

He hands it to her and swings his leg over the bike seat.  “C’mon, up you go.”

Clutching the device against her side, she awkwardly maneuvers herself over the front tire and manages to boost herself up one-handed.  The bike teeters for one terrifying moment, but the Doctor manages to steady it.  He starts to pedal, and they lurch forward.

“Don’t look down,” he chuckles into her ear.  “Your head’s heavy—tilting it shifts your center of gravity.  If you look down, you’ll fall down.” 

“Right,” she says in a high-pitched voice, gripping the handlebars with her free hand.  He’s struggling to get enough momentum going to make the ride smooth, and even though she’s got pretty good balance, every wobble and bump feels like it could spell disaster.  Rose is just starting to wonder how best to leap free of the front wheel when they reach a more level patch of ground, and everything evens out as they speed up.

“You see?” says the Doctor, sounding smug.  “What’d I say?  Easy-peasy.”

There’s really only one response to that.  “You think you’re so impressive.”

“We-elll…”  He shifts his grip, and one of his thumbs brushes against the side of her hip.  “I guess we’ll find out.”

Ok, she’s pretty sure he’s doing that on purpose. 

They manage to find the cows by following the path of manure and destruction.  The herd is grazing in a small open field just off the side of the road.  Once they have them in sight, the Doctor parks the bike, and together, they creep up and crouch behind the broken remains of an old stone wall.  Peering over the top of it at the cows, Rose can’t help but think that this whole scenario feels awfully familiar—the two of them sneaking about, vanquishing evildoers.  Any second now, he’ll grab her hand and yell ‘run,’ and together, they’ll race back to the TARDIS, laughing.

The Doctor lifts the cow catcher up onto the wall where it begins to hum and chime.  Rose gives it a worried look. 

“Can’t you turn down the volume or something?” she whispers.  “You’re going to spook the cows.”

He rolls his eyes.  “Rose, the sound is the whole point.  Just watch.”

She does, and for the longest time, it seems like nothing is happening.  Then she starts to notice something odd—the cows’ normal behaviors of tail swishing, walking, grazing start to become strangely synced.  She blinks, and no, she’s not imagining it: their movements are all falling into the same rhythm. 

“How’re they—” she starts, but the Doctor shushes her and puts a finger on her lips for good measure.

“Just wait a moment,” he says in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the herd even as his finger continues to rest on the swell of her mouth.  And then, even softer: “I’m trying to show you some Spock.”

She’s considering the pros and cons of catching his finger in her teeth when the cow machine starts to beep excitedly, and the Doctor has to pull his hand away in order to fiddle with the buttons.

“There!”  He glances up, grins at her.  “Now have a look at them.”

Rose peeks up over the edge of the wall and blinks in surprise.  The cows are walking together in formation, like a parade, each one equidistant from the others. 

“Oh, that’s amazing,” she breathes, fingers on mouths momentarily forgotten.  “Can we go near them, or will it break the signal or whatever?”

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” he answers, standing up.  “It’s the very best in bovine bioelectrical neurofeedback enhancement using subharmonic aural stimulation.  The program’s fully integrated now, so until I turn this off, they’re going to do just as I say.  March to the beat of my drum.”  He offers her a hand up.

“Kind of like the Pied Piper,” she says as she takes it, grinning as he helps her to her feet.

“Exactly like the Pied Piper,” he agrees, smiling back at her.  “Er, except with cows instead of rats and small children.”

The device beeps again, and he turns his attention back to it, making careful adjustments to keep everything running smoothly.  His fringe hangs down over his eyes as he leans forward, and his tongue touches the back of his teeth with that look of concentration that he always gets when he’s tinkering, and oh.

He’s the Doctor.

The realization is so sudden, the light of discover so bright, that she’s momentarily speechless.  He’s the Doctor, of course he’s the Doctor, and she knew it, but she hadn’t fully believed it, not all the way deep down.  There’s always been some tiny disconnect, some little flicker of doubt that refused to die as she watched him run about on a farm in jeans, mucking out stalls and painting window boxes. 

She’d thought she’d been waiting for him this whole time.  Waiting for him to be ready, to be comfortable, to want whatever it is that’s coming next for them, but maybe it’s been her.  Maybe she’s been the one drawing the boundaries all along. 

She doesn’t quite know how to explain her epiphany, how to say, ‘yes, I know you’re _you_ , and this time I really mean it’—they’ve never really been very good at talking about these things—but maybe that’s not important right now.  Maybe all they need is contact.    

“It’s brilliant,” she says, putting a hand on his arm and leaving it there.  “Totally Spock.”

He glances up at her, flashes a quick grin that grows softer when he notices how close she’s standing.  “Well, don’t thank me just yet.”  He flips one last switch on the device and then hands it to her, waggling his eyebrows.  “We’ve still got to see how well they steer.” 

(He looks really pleased with himself on account of that pun.  Rose resists rolling her eyes, mostly because she’s arse over elbows in love with him.)    

Fifteen minutes later, they’re riding the bike down the road behind the herd, swerving this way and that in a lazy serpentine motion since the cows are so slow.  Rose is once again sitting on the handlebars, waving like the Queen at anybody who stops and stares at their procession.  She feels completely giddy, drunk on the wonder of her new discovery and the absurdity of the day, and this life of theirs, and everything. 

Trying his best not to laugh, the Doctor tells her to stop waving—every time she lets go of the handlebars, the bike wobbles—but his protests are halfhearted at best, and when Rose grins at him over her shoulder, tells him she has complete confidence in his driving abilities, he pushes the bike into an extra-daring swoop just for show.  She shrieks and laughs, and he laughs too, and oh yes, his thumbs are most definitely brushing against her hips on purpose.

They finally bring the herd back to the farm, and the cows wait politely in line for their turn to go through the gate.  Once they’re all in, the Doctor disengages his device, and they blink at their surroundings and express their displeasure with some aggrieved moos, but when Henry comes to pour the first bucket of grain into the trough, they decide to make the most of the situation and tuck in.

“They’re so peaceful now,” says the Doctor, leaning on the fence next to the Rose, watching the cows eat.  “You’d never suppose that they’re secretly evil.”

“That’s the way with stock,” calls Henry philosophically as he tosses hay into the feeders.  “You never know what’s going to come next.  Best get that fence fixed properly tomorrow, or they’ll just get out again, the wick buggers.”

“Eh, don’t worry,” Rose calls back with a grin.  She hooks her arm through the Doctor’s, gives him a playful nudge.  “Turns out that the Doctor is the Pied Piper of cows.”  She turns to look at him, face full of laughter, and finds him already staring at her, and oh yes, she remembers that look, the one that makes her heart beat faster and her breath hitch.

For a brief moment, they stare at each other, and then the Doctor grabs her hand.

“C’mon,” he says quickly, tugging her away from the fence, “let’s finish up the work in the barn.”

She nods, only slightly disappointed, but it’s alright—the work has to get done one way or another, so they might as well do it now.  “Should we check on the TARDIS coral while we’re in there?” she asks as she follows him into the barn, idly wondering if she can work a hug into this situation.  “Does it need anything special?”  She slides the barn door closed behind them.  “D’you think that—”

He kisses her. 

There’s no finesse; it’s all want and frantic desire, his hands fisting in her hair, and when she opens her mouth in surprise, he thrusts his tongue in eagerly.  For one strange moment, she can’t react at all, and it feels like her body’s been replaced with helium—all she can do is expand up, up, up into his arms.   Then in a brilliant rush, she’s looping her arms around his neck to pull him tighter, pushing up on her toes to get the control she needs to bite his lower lip. 

He growls in the back of his throat, finds the waistline of her wool trousers, and grabs the fabric of her shirt.  With a tug, he pulls it out, bunching it up enough for his fingers to find the bare skin covering her ribs, and they both moan into each other’s mouths at the contact.  

There’s no room between them for her to reciprocate, so she slips her hands under his collar instead, scratching her nails over his shoulders, cupping her hands around his neck, trying to touch as much of his skin as possible.

His hands on her waist guide her backward, the two of them bumping awkwardly against each other until he’s pressed her into a stack of hay bales.  The stack’s about the right height for her to be at his eye level if she sits on it, maybe even wrap her legs around him once she’s up there, which sounds like a fine idea, genius really.  She’s just pulling back a little in order to boost herself up when he breaks the kiss.

“Sorry,” he says the moment their lips move apart.  His eyes are huge, wild, and his hair is standing on end.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do that.  You don’t have to…I know that this isn’t what you wanted, what you imagined would happen, and I wanted to—”

She kisses him again.

“—give you space, Rose.  And time.  And I promise I will, I just—”

This time, when their mouths meet, she rocks her hips into him to shut him up, because frankly, she’s had all she can take of space, and the only time that matters is right now. 

He yields to her clearly superior argument, sinking back into the kiss with a grateful sigh.  He helps her up on the hay bale, her legs wind around his narrow hips, and when Rose rips his shirt open, the buttons go flying, clattering against the barn walls and skittering across the cement floor, little bits and pieces of an old wall crashing down at long last.

Of course, there are a number of things about farm life that the books don’t ever mention.  Like how much work it takes to run a farm or how well cows respond to subharmonic neurofeedback.  Or—and this is the really important bit—if you’re going to go for a roll in the hay, it’s really better to do it far, far away from any actual hay. 

(The Doctor can’t stop sneezing, and Rose ends up with straw in her knickers.)

But that’s OK.  They get it right later that night. 

She comes on a combination of long, slow strokes and clever fingers, the musical squeaks of the old bed frame a counterpoint to her shuddering cries.  He’s been keeping up a marvelously dirty commentary in her ear until now, but he pauses and pulls back enough to watch her face as she goes over the edge. 

When she finally comes back to herself and pushes his hand away, he hooks his arm under her knee, hitches up her leg as he keeps up those slow thrusts, a constant friction, never changing his pace for a minute, and the angle is just, ohh…

He kisses another low moan off her mouth and chuckles.  “You,” he pants, resting his forehead against hers “need to be quieter.  You’re going to spook the cows.”

He is, she decides, far too smug.

It is with some effort that she manages to snag her leg around his and tug his elbow out from under him.  It’s unexpected enough that he tilts to the side, and she takes advantage, rolls him over until she’s on top.  He flops down onto the pillow, a look of surprise and delight on his face as he runs his hands from her knees to her hips, teasing her waist. 

Her knees sink into the flimsy mattress, and her legs are still shaking with the aftereffects of orgasm, but she finds purchase enough, gripping his hips with her thighs as she rises and falls.  She’s still trying to catch her breath, and every downward stroke makes her gasp. 

“Can’t imagine that the cows care much,” she finally manages as she runs her fingers across the smattering of hair on his chest, “but if they do, it’ll be this bed that sets them off.”  She rocks her hips, changing the angle, and the bed makes an extra-loud creak as in agreement. 

“Too bad if it does,” he says, tracing her belly with his thumbs.  “I like this bed.  I like this bed very, very much.”

She agrees, tips her head back, leansback, and he groans in appreciation, never taking his eyes off her.   His hands are gripping her hips now, guiding her, and as he keeps talking, words full of praise and filth, he never closes his eyes, not even for a moment.

He likes it, she thinks, likes seeing her like this, naked and wanton and undone, and it’s that thought, more than the sensation, that makes her come again and pulls him along after her—her watching him watching her. 

Of course, when he comes, he’s at least twice as loud as she was.  She’d laugh if she had the air to do it or maybe take a turn swallowing his cries, but his mouth is too far away, and she’s too happy to care. 

In any case, it turns out Rose is right—the cows remain unimpressed.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

When the crop circles start to appear, the Doctor is exceedingly annoyed. 

They are standing up on a hill overlooking the northern field. Below them, a strange, almost Celtic pattern has been pressed into the wheat.

“Well, it’s sort of pretty,” says Rose with a shrug. “And we don’t really need the wheat, strictly speaking. I mean, we’ll still have enough for the animals and all that, right?”

“Pretty! _Pretty!_ Rose, just look at that,” the Doctor rants, waving his hands about in disgust. “That doesn’t say ‘authentic farm’ to anybody. In fact, it doesn’t say anything at all, in any language, past, present, or future. It’s like a giant, nonsensical, hipster tattoo in the middle of our crops!”

Rose shrugs again. “It’s just kids. Or somebody who wants attention. We’re probably better off ignoring it.”

But the Doctor is adamant, and so they spend several nights camped out in the field, chasing off students on break from Uni and wacky true believers. It’s not exactly a slick operation, the sort Rose had gotten used to while working for Torchwood. The Doctor is unpredictable as ever, and neither one of them can quite agree on who’s in charge. Still, they start to find a working rhythm, running through the long, wet stalks and muttering increasingly silly code words to each other through the walkie-talkies that the Doctor’s wired up. 

And there’s definitely something to be said for the afterparty—collapsing flushed and breathless into the tent, struggling in the limited space to kick off wet socks and trousers and pants. Rose laughing as her head hits the tent wall when the Doctor shoves her up, trying to make room enough to bury his mouth between her thighs. Both of them laughing even harder later when somebody (neither one will admit to it) accidentally kicks one of the tent poles free, and the whole thing collapses on them mid-thrust.

The wheat field recovers somewhat sooner than expected, thanks to the Doctor’s eco-sonic molecular cohesion generator, which he is immensely proud of but refuses to use except under cover of darkness. Still, it’s no doubt the sort of futuristic tech that Torchwood would frown on, lecture about, and then confiscate for its own use. When Rose points this out, the Doctor reluctantly disassembles it.

Two weeks later, another crop circle appears, a significantly different design this time. But when Rose suggests another round of camping, offers to help put the eco-sonic whatever back together, the Doctor just shakes his head. 

“Nah, we don’t need to worry about that one,” he says as they look down at the circle from that same nearby hill. “It’s of a much higher quality, don’t you think? Just look at that craftsmanship!”

Rose just shrugs, not sure what to make of this change of heart. When she later finds a pair of his trousers half under the bed, bits of wheat still clinging to the damp fabric, well…she’s not sure what to make of that, either.

But these little oddities aside, their life settles into a routine. The farm is actually starting to look nice, enough so that Rose invites her mum, Pete, and Tony for a visit. Tony gets to pet the cows and chase the chickens while the Doctor and Pete have manly discussions about tractor engines and pretend to know things about livestock. Rose spends some quality time with her mum, which is lovely even though Jackie clearly thinks she’s crazy to put up with all this farm nonsense but is trying really hard not to say so out loud. 

When it’s time for them to leave, the Doctor loads up their car with an assortment of pies and several cases of apple jam from the overstuffed canning cupboard. Jackie hugs him, kisses his cheek, and tells him for God’s sakes to put a doorknob on the loo. 

So all in all, a successful visit.

Rose’s subsequent good mood lasts the better part of the week. It’s been, well…weird living on a farm, but it’s nice to feel like they’ve at least got the hang of it. All too soon, though, that particular bubble pops.

Rose is helping Henry haul bags of supplementary feed into the storage building. They’ve been having a conversation about silage and the merits of on-site feed storage versus grain co-ops when Henry pauses for a moment, one bag still slung over his shoulder.

“So, eh…is the Doctor around today?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “he left early this morning to pick up some new engine parts.” But something about the way he asked, just a bit too casually, catches her attention. “Why, is something wrong?”

Henry eases the heavy bag off his shoulder and dusts his hands off. “It’s just that…well, I don’t want to poke my nose in where it isn’t wanted, but…”

“No, please,” says Rose. “Go ahead. What’s the matter?”

He scratches his forehead uncomfortably. “I was wondering what you’re planning on doing with the cattle.”

Rose frowns. “Doing with them? What do you mean?”

“Selling them. The yearlings, I mean. I started to ask the Doctor if maybe he’d like to talk to a somebody I know down at the processing plant, or send them to the auction house, but then he just sort of talked on and on about something or other, got distracted, and ran off.” Henry’s discomfort seems to increase. “Are you…just keeping them for pets, then?”

“No, no,” answers Rose quickly, “they’re not meant as pets—” but then she starts to think about it…just what the hell are they doing with these cows, anyway? This is supposed to be a proper farm, and it’s not like they’re running a dairy, so presumably the cows should sold for beef, some of them at least. They’ve never talked about it, though, so she honestly doesn’t know. 

The more she thinks about it, the weirder it seems. In the months that they’ve lived here, they’ve figured out things like feeding schedules and pasture rotations, they know how to check for injuries and illness, but they’ve never made any plans to sell the cows. Or breed them, which is surely part of the process, too, right? 

Anyway, she has a hard time picturing the Doctor selling animals that he’s raised for food. He’s not exactly a vegetarian, but he does tend to get attached to things. And she knows for a fact that he’s already named a bunch of them, so…huh.

“Uh…we’ll have a chat about it,” she tells Henry. “Don’t worry.”

“Alright then,” says Henry. “Just think on it before the winter sets in. No use in feeding stock through the winter and selling them in the spring.”

He hefts the bag of pellets back over his shoulder and heads off toward the barn, leaving Rose alone to chew on her lip over this jarring realization. She’s been focused on him, on _them_ , and the agriculture has just sort of been the background, but…

Well, the Doctor’s always going on about authenticity, so he must have a plan. And even if he doesn’t, there’s no reason why they can’t figure something out. Maybe if beef isn’t in the cards, they could transition to dairy. Or they could sell off the cows and keep chickens instead. Or sheep! Nice, fluffy, woolly sheep that they could shear. That couldn’t be too hard, right? Sheep probably respond well to subharmonic neurofeedback. It’s an option, at least.

She fully intends to sit the Doctor down that evening and figure out exactly what to do with this farm of theirs. But when she goes in that evening, she finds him in the sitting room, all the curtains carefully closed as he hunches over her laptop, reading some new emergency missive from Torchwood. His eyes are serious, his hair is all ruffled, his glasses are perched on his nose, and…well, the whole tableau is just very distracting. Between Torchwood’s Rift-based emergency and the spontaneous sofa sex, the whole farm issue slips right out of her head.

The next morning, the alarm goes off just as the first pinkish light of dawn is creeping over the horizon. Rose bats her hand in the direction of the clock until the beeping stops and then lies there for a moment, blinking and smacking her lips sleepily. Bed is warm and outside is cold, but it’s her turn to do the morning feeding. With a sigh, she squirms free of the Doctor’s arms and drags herself out of bed and into a jumper, trousers, and some thick wool socks that she finds under one of the chairs in the kitchen.

A coffee would be nice, but the pilot light on the stove seems to be out again, and the cows are already starting to moo impatiently for breakfast. Rose tugs on her wellies and heads out to the barn, yawning the whole way. 

The early morning frost has left a skim of ice on the water troughs. It shatters like glass, making a very satisfying sound, when she cracks it with the handle of her pitchfork. Rose makes sure to check every trough to make sure the pipes haven’t frozen before she starts distributing the feed. The cattle snort appreciatively as she tosses hay from a cart into the feeding racks. 

Once the first pen is done, she loads up the cart again to take out to the next one. The quickest route is through the barn, so she drags the cart through the door. She pulls through the rows of stalls, giving the TARDIS coral a friendly nod as she goes. Then she shoves open the back door of the barn, the one leading out to the pen, and finds a cow levitating right in front of her. 

Rose blinks.

No, it’s still there. Definitely a floating cow, hooves dangling about five feet up in the air. It turns its head to look down at her and moos forlornly.

“Huh.” She absently stabs the pitchfork into the muddy ground and investigates.

There’s probably a protocol for this sort of thing, she figures, but it’s really very early, and she hasn’t had her coffee yet. So she just starts running through the usual suspects—the Doctor has gotten bored and created some sort of cow-levitation device. _Torchwood_ has gotten bored and created a cow-levitation device. The cows have been munching on alien coral nutro subbases or whatever and have started mutating. Aliens are invading…oh.

And there’s the tipoff: a faint, pale blue light flickering on the grass underneath the cow. Rose has seen more of the universe than the average organic cattle rancher; she recognizes the signs of this form of matter transport. 

“Oi,” she yells, turning her face toward the ostensibly empty sky. “Just what d’you think you’re doing? Put our cow down!”

There’s no response, and the cow continues to float. Annoyed, Rose stoops to pick up a few rocks off the ground and tosses them into the air, well above the cow. About fifteen feet up, they clang against an invisible surface.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” she shouts. “I know you’re there. Come out and talk to me!”

Whoever they are, they aren’t interested in negotiating, though the cow does glow green for a bit. Rose keeps shouting, but there’s no other response.

After several minutes, she’s seriously considering either going back to the house to wake the Doctor or just grabbing the ladder out of the barn and having a go at the little alien cow rustlers herself. But just as she’s reaching for the barn door, it swings open wildly, and the Doctor comes running out in his pajamas, dressing gown billowing out behind him.

“Did you see them?” he demands. “Are they still here?”

Before she has a chance to answer, he spots the floating cow and breaks out in a wild grin. “Oh, that’s _brilliant_! That’s perfect! Hallo!” he calls, waving his arms at the invisible ship. “Koreh atho dtromia!”

She doesn’t recognize the language he’s using, but he’s still shouting in it with enthusiasm. “Wait, do you know them?” Rose demands. “Who are they? What the hell are they doing with our cow?”

“Don’t you see? They’re the Karndrios! They’ve come here! To our farm!” He grabs her by the hands, pulls her into a happy twirl. “I’d thought that maybe…and there were signs…but I didn’t want to say anything, get your hopes up in case nothing happened. But here they are.” 

“Er, OK, but—” says Rose, but the rest of her questions are interrupted when the aliens’ ship flickers into view. The matter transport beam lowers the cow gently back down into the paddock, and then the aliens land their craft in a nearby field. (The cow, apparently unfazed by recent events, wanders over to the still-empty feed rack and stares at her pointedly.)

Meanwhile, the Doctor is running to greet the aliens, jabbering on in that strange language, though about what, she can’t possibly imagine. Maybe he wants a ride? Diplomatic relations? An autograph?

Leaning against the shaft of the pitchfork, Rose observes as the door of the spaceship opens and a bevy of short, grey aliens emerge. They have huge black eyes with big, bulbous heads and look _exactly_ like aliens are supposed to look, at least according to American TV. 

Also, three of them are wearing cowboy hats.

As she watches the Doctor beam and shake hands with their guests, Rose is suddenly struck by the memory of a particular dimension cannon jump. She’d landed in the parallel universe that, for whatever reason, entirely lacked the color yellow. It hadn’t been immediately obvious, but there had been this funny, creeping feeling that something wasn’t quite right. People had looked at her oddly, but she couldn’t explain it until suddenly, she caught sight of herself in a shop window and realized with a shock that her hair had turned a particularly vivid shade of green.

Yeah. This is kind of like that.

The Doctor finishes up his meet and greet and comes back to her. “They’ve decided to stay,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “We’ve done it.”

“Uh,” says Rose.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” adds the Doctor. “We don’t need to do anything in particular. No performances necessary—just go about your normal routine. Here, I’ll give you a hand.” He grabs the pitchfork and starts tossing hay into the racks. 

…Performances?

Trying to remain nonchalant, Rose grabs another pitchfork and starts to help. “And, er, who are they exactly?”

The Doctor pauses mid-toss and looks at her over his shoulder. “They’re the Karndrios, of course. Remember? Alkali anon exchange membranes?” He gives the pitchfork another shove to get the hay off of it and then turns to her. “Shatterfrying the plasmic shell? Accelerate the growth rate by a factor of 59?” 

She stares at him. Across the barnyard, the Karn-whoevers are waving excitedly at the chickens.

He stares back. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No, no!” Rose shakes her head. “‘Course, I do. Alkinon change membranes. To do the shattering…of the thing…” She trails off. He’s definitely not buying it, and she’s pretty sure she’s just digging herself in deeper.

The Doctor steps closer, bemused, and he keeps opening and closing his mouth like he can’t quite decide what to say next. Then he stops, closes his eyes as he rocks back on his heels. “Rose…why are we’re living on a farm?”

“Uh,” she licks her lip nervously. “Aliens?”

“Mm-hmm. Alright.” He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to stop the odd spasms that keep passing over his face. “And why did you think we were living on a farm, say…oh, yesterday afternoon?”

“Ummm.”

“I mean, here we are. Living on a farm. Raising cows. And you figured it was because…?”

She bites her lip and gives it up with a shrug. “Giving a go at the whole domestic thing?”

The Doctor’s face is a picture. Eyes closed now, he covers his mouth with one hand and his shoulders start to shake. 

“Well, I dunno,” protests Rose, face heating up as she watches him heroically try not to laugh. “You do all sorts of daft things. And we were just getting to know each other again, and you went and bought a farm. What was I supposed to do, crush your fragile dreams?”

At the words ‘fragile dreams,’ the Doctor’s self-control breaks, and he bursts into helpless laughter. Rose does her best to scowl at him, but she can’t help but crack a smile at the absurdity of it all. 

“Well, what I want to know is if you had some big plan, how come you never explained it to me?” she demands.

“I did,” he gasps, waving his hands at her and trying to get a deep breath. “I did, before I even bought the place. Don’t you remember?”

Rose glares at him. “No! There’s no way you told me all that. Pretty sure I’d remember if there were supposed to be aliens involved.”

He rubs his knuckles over his eyes, wiping away tears as he catches his breath. “Ah, hmmm. You were very tired at the time. Um, there’s a chance you might have fallen asleep.”

She smacks him lightly on the arm, and he makes a big show of flinching and rubbing the spot. “Next time you want to discuss big life decisions with me, make sure my eyes are open, yeah?”

“Agreed.” His pained face shifts into something softer. “You thought all that and you still agreed to come here with me.”

“Course I did.” Rose folds her arms and looks away. “Told you I’d never leave you, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Meant it,” she mutters.

He chuckles as he reaches for her, tugging her arms apart and drawing her in. “Clearly.” 

Rose lets out a sigh as she collapses against his chest. “I’m really very annoyed with you, you know.”

“I know.” He wraps his arms around her. “I’m very, very sorry. Er, you may have noticed, but sometimes I’m not the best communicator.”

She snorts in response.

“I’ll try to do better. Also, I love you. If that helps.”

“Yeah,” she says as she slips her arms around his waist. “S’pose it does. So what are the Kandyos—”

“Karndrios,” he corrects, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“Right, the Karndrios. What are they doing here, anyway?”

“Oh, they’re tourists. They’ve got a particular fascination with mid-twentieth century rural agriculture. Actually, I wasn’t sure if they’d show up here at all—different universe, of course, and also, most of the big tours go to Iowa.”

Rose hums against his chest. “Naturally.”

“But there are some specialty groups that go in for British agriculture. In the other universe, they were always getting in trouble for sneaking into the James Herriot Museum after hours.” He shrugs, and his dressing gown shifts against her cheek. “It’s a niche market.”

“I see. And we wanted them to come here because?”

“Oh, they’ve got the alkali anion exchange membrane I need to accelerate the growth of the TARDIS. In fact, they’ve already agreed to trade it for the right to visit today, so we’re set. Though it’d be handy to have them come by every now and again in case we need more parts. They’re usually well stocked.”

“Hmm.” She thinks about this for a moment. “So the farm has served its purpose, then.”

“Yep. Well, once I’m able to shatterfry the plasmic shell, it’ll still be at least a year before the TARDIS is big enough to move.” He rubs a hand over her shoulder blade. “That alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Short trips after that, for a while at least. On-planet only and within a millennium in either direction. Once she’s able to solidify her tridexic navigational control matrix, the sky’s the limit. We can go anywhere you like.” He cups her cheek, tilts her head up so he can drop a kiss on her mouth. “All of time and space at your disposal.”

Rose smiles against his lips. “Sounds good.”

They linger in the kiss until the cows get fed up and one of them gives them a not-so-gentle nudge with its nose, prompting them to pull apart and finish up the feeding. Out front, the Karndrios are oohing and ahhing over the cows, gently reaching up to pet their soft noses. Once the chores are done, the Doctor and Rose lean against a fence and watch as a group of them pose for holographic scans in front of the tractor. A few of them are admiring the flowers, and one of them seems extremely excited at the weathervane.

“You know…” the Doctor trails off, looking around. “It’s not such a bad little farm, is it?”

Rose gazes around the yard as well. It’s quite different than it was when they first moved in—clean paths, tidy gardens, flowerboxes at the windows with newly painted shutters. It’s picturesque, actually. She can sort of see why aliens would want to come here. “No, you’re right. It’s come a long way.”

“I liked it more than I thought I would,” he confesses. “It’s nice to have roots, so to speak. A place in the world. Maybe…”

“What?”

“Well…” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know, might be presumptuous of me. I just thought that maybe…in the future…”

Rose raises her eyebrows in silent question because he’s peering at her like he’s hoping for an answer before he’s even asked the question.

“I just thought it might be a nice base of operations. A home away from home away from home.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, turns away from her. “Especially if we had any sort of…familial expansion take place.”

He’s studiously facing away, but Rose thinks she catches him glimpsing at her out of the corner of his eye. “You know. In the future. Maybe.” He shrugs. “Might be nice to have a…home. A little slice of normality.”

Behind him, a cow walks past with a pair of aliens in Stetsons and neckerchiefs on its back.

“Right.” Rose nods sagely. “Normal.”

“Er, well.” The Doctor shifts awkwardly. “Just a thought.”

This time, it’s Rose’s turn to giggle at him as she loops an arm through his. “Tell you what, we’ll talk about it. When we’re both fully awake. Alright?”

The tension in his face dissolves into a smile, and he takes her hand. “It’s a deal.”


End file.
